


Moving-Blues

by ChaoticallyWriting



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Best Friends, Domestic, Friendship, Gen, I have no idea how to tag this tbh, References to Depression, Stan-Centric, stan is A Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 01:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticallyWriting/pseuds/ChaoticallyWriting
Summary: Stanley Uris hates asking his friends for help, so when he has some trouble moving into a new apartment, they have to take matters into their own hands.





	Moving-Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetozier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/gifts).



> So this fic is very loosely based off of sunsetozier (lo-v-ers on Tumblr)'s headcanon that Stan is secretly really messy.  
> I originally was gonna have it be they all just help him clean his room, but it somehow turned into helping him unpack at his new apartment, soooooooo.... Here ya' go!

            Stan despised being behind the other Losers. Although he was only a year behind them in school, it had always made him feel like he was behind them in life overall.

            Everyone else got to go to high school before him, graduate before him, leave Derry for college before him, and when he tried to complete college in three years instead of four, he ended up stressing himself sick and graduating a year after them anyways.

            So Stan made up for that by being the most mature. He liked the thought of being independent, holding his own, being a model adult for his friends to look up to, even if he was the youngest and even if he was always a year behind them.

            But the truth, Stan realized, was that he was a complete and utter mess.

            He was sure model adults who could hold their own would have unpacked and settled into their apartment after a month, instead of sitting on the ground around unopened packing boxes and a few empty pizza boxes.

            Had he had time to unpack? Yes. Had he taken much time and effort in actually trying to unpack? …. No. Every time he tried to unpack, he got overwhelmed with how much there was to do and simply stopped. But the longer he waited to unpack, the more depressed looking at the piles of boxes in his barren apartment made him. The very most he had done was go through a suitcase of clothes and dump his bedsheets onto his mattress. Here was the guy who would drag his friends to the laundromat if they were out of clean clothes, lecture them on leaving out trash and old takeout boxes, and would spend a whole day organizing his friend’s things if they let him, and he couldn’t even put together his own apartment. Sure, his friends would help him if he asked, but he felt like the time to ask had long since passed and that at this point it would just be humiliating to admit he had done so little.

            Stan eventually stood up and headed to the kitchen, sticking his leftover pizza into the fridge. At the very least, he wasn’t leaving food out to rot or anything. _Yeah, I have that going for me_ , he thought, about to return to his spot on the floor until the doorbell rang. He jumped slightly, looking to the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, he hadn’t invited anyone over or anything. Approaching the door and looking through the peephole, he saw none other than Bill, glancing down the hall of the apartment complex as he waited for Stan to answer.

            Stan cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his curls. Why the hell was Bill dropping by? Couldn’t he have at least sent a text and given him a warning? Was that too much to ask?

            Before Bill would feel the need to knock again, Stan opened the door. “What?” Ugh, he didn’t mean to sound so curt, but Bill just smiled at him.

            “H-Hey, sorry t-t-to d-drop by s-so s-s-su-suddenly….” For a moment it seemed like Bill had more to say, but he trailed off, and Stan realized he was looking at the barren living room over Stan’s shoulder. Stan practically pulled a muscle yanking the door closed more, so that Bill couldn’t see into the apartment. His friend gave him a look that Stan couldn’t quite decipher. Surprise? Pity? Some mix of the two and a few other emotions? Whatever it was, it made Stan want to hide inside and wallow in his blanket.

            “What do you want?”

            “Oh, I j-just wanted t-to p-p-pay you b-back for lu-lunch.” Bill fished a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it out to Stan. Stan had completely forgotten that he had paid for Bill’s lunch the other day. But even though Bill was forgetful, he never seemed to forget when he owed a friend, whether it was in money or in favors.

            “Uh, right,” Stan replied, reaching out and taking the money from Bill. “You couldn’t tell me you were coming?”

            “I was g-going to text you on th-the way, b-but I left my phone a-at home,” Bill smiled sheepishly, but his look quickly morphed into concern. “Stan… Are y-you doing okay?”

            “Yup. Doing just fine.”

            “A-Are you sure? It d-doesn’t look like you’ve un-unpacked much…”

            “I’ve been… Busy.” The seconds those words left his mouth, Stan could tell that wasn’t a satisfactory answer for Bill. He was looking at him with doubt and concern and _pity_ , and _god_ if that didn’t make Stan’s stomach churn.

            “If y-you say so… I’ll see you a-around.”

            Stan nodded, saying, “Yeah, seeya,” and quickly shut the door, taking everything in him not to slam it shut as he felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. Why did Bill have to forget his stupid phone? Why did he have to open the door so wide when answering it? Why did the living room have to be so goddamn visible from the front door?

            Running his fingers through his hair and returning to his spot on the floor, he decided to at the very least be thankful that Bill hadn’t pushed him into talking more. He just silently hoped Bill wouldn’t tell the others….

 

* * *

 

            A week had passed, and Stan still hadn’t done much unpacking. However, he had one small victory, and that victory was doing the laundry.

            The apartment complex had its own little laundromat in the basement, so Stan didn’t have to leave the building in order to do his laundry, something he was infinitely grateful for every time he remembered trying to get his and Richie’s laundry home in the rain or snow. The one downside was that only maintenance workers could use the elevator to get to the basement, but he supposed the exercise from carrying a loaded basket up and down a flight of stairs would do him some good anyways.

            For the past hour and a half Stan had mostly played Tetris on his phone while waiting for his clothes to wash and dry. While he would have much preferred texting his friends, the basement had basically no signal, so he was left to his own devices. Usually, that wasn’t a problem, but Tetris soon started proving to be doing minimal for his mind, and he slowly started feeling shitty about himself again. He knew it was ridiculous, he was doing something productive! He was achieving something! He was being an adult!

            …By washing clothes that he should’ve washed _days ago_.

            The ‘ding’ of the dryer finishing came as a relief to Stan, finally piling his clothes back into his clothes basket and making the climb back up the stairs.

            When he reached the top, his phone suddenly exploded with buzzes, making Stan jump a little. Usually, he would check his phone immediately, but with the laundry basket in his arms he had to wait until he was back in his apartment and had set the basket down before he could see the messages that were sent. This time, they were all sent by a certain trashmouth.

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:01 PM]  
            ** _STAN Are you free tomorrow?_

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:03 PM]  
            ** _Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan_

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:15 PM]  
            ** _Stanthony_

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:27 PM]  
            ** _Stanny boy_

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:36 PM]**  
            _Are you dead  
            Should I be worried_

 **Rich the Bitch [sent at 8:45 PM]  
            ** _STAN_

            Stan glanced at the time, and judged that the last text was sent just before he left the basement. He sighed a little and sent Richie a response.

 **Stan [Sent at 8:56 PM]  
            ** _I was doing laundry_

 **Rich the Bitch [Sent at 8:56 PM]  
            ** _Laundry is more important than me? I see how it is :c_

 **Stan [Sent at 8:57 PM]**  
            _What did you want?_

 **Rich the Bitch [Sent at 8:57 PM]**  
            _Can I come over tomorrow_

            Stan looked up from his phone to glance around his apartment. The boxes were still right where they were yesterday, most still unopened, and now there was a basket of clean clothes that needed to be folded added to the mix. He felt his stomach sink a little when he realized that even if he did fold his clothes- which he now wasn’t feeling very up for at the moment- he didn’t have a dresser put together to actually put them in.

            He debated whether or not he wanted Richie to see the mess his apartment was. On one hand, Bill had already seen that Stan hadn’t unpacked, and he didn’t want anymore of the Losers to see and potentially judge him. On the other, Richie has seen how messy both Stan’s room in high school and his old apartment got more than any of the other Losers. That, and Richie didn’t have much room to judge, considering almost every room he spent a night in would come out looking like it’d been hit by a tornado.

            Oh, fuck it. If anyone was allowed to see Stan as an utter mess, it was Richie.

 **Stan [Sent at 9:00 PM]  
            ** _Sure, what time?_

 **Rich the Bitch [Sent at 9:00 PM]**  
            _I’ll come before lunch! Seeya Stanny!!_

            Stan sighed and set his phone down on the counter. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this….

 

* * *

 

            When he went to bed the night prior, Stan planned on at the very least folding some of his clothes and leaving them on his bed before Richie came over, but he had such difficulty dragging himself out of bed in the morning that the most he could muster was moving the clothes basket from the living room to his bedroom.

            And now, he was lying on his living room floor, still in his pajamas and curled up in a blanket.

            Now that he thought of it, he had no idea what he and Richie would do today. He thought for a moment that maybe, he should text Richie and tell him to bring his Switch so they could play Mario Kart. But when he texted Richie earlier asking if he was coming at a more specific time, he had gotten no response. A little rude, maybe, but not unusual for Richie, who often read texts and forgot to reply to them. Usually Stan would send another text to remind Richie to actually respond, but he didn’t really feel like moving all that much today. Maybe letting Richie come over was a mistake. Or maybe it’d be just what Stan needed to lift his spirits. He wasn’t sure at this point.

            Just as that thought crossed his mind, the doorbell rang, and Stan groaned in response. He forced himself to get up off the floor and walked to the door, feeling a heaviness with each step. Once he reached the door, he paused and took a deep breath to try and brace himself for the explosion of a person that was Richard Tozier. When he opened the door, he was met with the goofy smile of his best friend.

            “Hey Stan!” Richie had a mischievous glint in his eye that Stan may have picked up on just a second too late.

            “Hey, Richie-”

            “ _Everyone in!_ ”

            Before Stan could properly react, Richie scooped Stan up in his arms and rushed into the apartment, followed by the other Losers, who Stan hadn’t noticed hiding out in the apartment hall.

            “Wh- Hey, wait- My apartment’s not ready for guests! Richie, put me down!” Stan yelled, startled. But Richie still held onto him as Bill spoke up.

            “A-Alright! Everyone, open a b-box and g-get to work!”

            “Guys—What are you doing??” Stan finally pried himself out of Richie’s grasp, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and turned around to face Richie.

            “Well, yesterday Big Bill over here noticed that you didn’t have much unpacked here, so us Losers are taking it upon ourselves to help Stanny-boy unpack!” Richie declared with a grin on his face. For a brief moment Stan was too stunned to speak, but he quickly snapped out of it when he saw Mike start unboxing a couch that needed to be put together.

            “Wait, you can’t do that yourself--” Stan stepped over to Mike, but was quickly cut off by a raised hand.

            “Ben’s gonna help me with the furniture, don’t worry,” Mike assured him, smiling and motioning to Ben, who had his tool box resting by him as he read through the instruction manual on how to put the couch together.

            “It’s my apartment, I should at least help-”

            But Mike just shook his head, “Nope, you just sit back and don’t worry about it.”

            Stan was pretty sure he was physically incapable of not worrying, especially right now. He opened his mouth to protest again, but Mike was already busying himself with the dismembered couch again. He glanced back to say something to Richie, but realized Richie had already run off to some other room, leaving him standing dumbfounded to absorb everything.

            His eyes finally landed on the entrance of the kitchen, through which he could see Eddie pulling out stacks of Tupperware from a box.

 _Wait, no,_ Stan thought, _I can put those away myself!_

            He rushed over to the kitchen, but as soon as he set foot in, Eddie shot him a look. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

            “I need to put the Tupperware away-”

            “Ohhhh no you don’t, that’s my job,” Eddie declared, “Outta the kitchen, Stan!”

            “But- But you don’t know where any of it goes!” Stan protested.

            “Neither do you, apparently.” That much was true, Stan hadn’t figured out where he was going to put his plates or glasses or silverware or anything. He’d been eating so much pizza and take-out, he hadn’t really needed any of his kitchenwares.

            “But I-”

            Eddie cut him off, “Plates and bowls, silverware, Tupperware, glasses, pots and pans,” pointing to what must’ve been their corresponding cabinets for each item. He looked back at Stan, “I’ve got it figured out, stop stressing about it and get out of the kitchen.” Stan merely nodded after a moment, and stepped out of the kitchen.

 _There’s gotta be something I can do_ , He thought, _I can’t let them do EVERYTHING for me_.

            Ben and Mike are putting together furniture, which is a lot to do, but they won’t let Stan help. Shit, he sucks at doing that anyways, he knows that. Eddie won’t let him put away his own kitchen supplies. But then again, he’s already figured out a good system for what goes where, and Stan couldn’t object to that.

            Wait, what about pictures? Stan can put up his pictures, maybe even the few other decorations he has!

            But upon glancing around the living room boxes, he realized the box of photos had already been taken by someone. Since Ben, Mike, and Eddie were already doing things, that meant either Bill, Beverly, or Richie had taken them.

            The vision of Richie accidentally smashing all of the photo frames sent Stan running down the hall, yelling, “ _Richie!_ ”

            “Bill, that one needs to be lower!” Stan skid to a halt when he rounded the hall corner, just barely preventing himself from running right into Bill, who was holding one of the picture frames up to the wall. Beverly had been the one speaking, holding up another frame and instructing Bill.

            “Are- Are you s-sure? It l-looks f-f-fine to m-me,” Bill stammered out, and Beverly just gave him a look.

            “Who did we agree has the better eye for these things?”

            “Al-Alright, alright,” Bill muttered, lowering the frame. Stan stared at the two of them for a minute as they paid him no mind. Beverly noticed him first.

            “Didja need something?” She asked, looking at Stan.

            “Uh- I should really put those up myself,” Stan started, only for Bill to interrupt.

            “N-Nah, we’ve g-got it Stan,” He stated. The conclusiveness of his tone alone might’ve been enough to shut Stan up, but the reassuring look Beverly gave him didn’t hurt either.

            “Oh, uh… Okay…?” Stan still didn’t move from where he was standing, watching them decide where to put hang his photos anxiously.

            “Richie’s in your room, if you’re looking for him,” Beverly replied, probably trying to hint at Stan to leave them alone. It was enough to snap Stan out of his anxious trance.

            “Wh- _Oh!_ ” He quickly rushed past Bill and Beverly and to his room, unsure of what he would find Richie doing and hoping he wasn’t somehow wrecking something.

            When he entered the room, his eyes landed on Richie smoothing down his bed sheets. Richie fluffed up the last pillow and set it down on the bed, before glancing at Stan and grinning, “Hey, Stan the Man!”

            Stan’s bed was made better than it had since Stan moved in. Hell, it was actually made for the first time since Stan moved in. If he were in a better state of mind, he might’ve cracked a joke about how shocking it was that Richie knew how to make a bed. But instead, Stan wanted to yell at Richie, or throw something at him, or cry, or kick all of his friends out and curl up in a corner and shrivel away. He couldn’t find the words he needed to say to Richie.

            “Stan…?” Richie said, the humor in his voice dying away a little, concern starting to creep ever-so-slightly into his eyes. “You okay?”

            Finally, Stan found his words, and took in a breath to speak, “What the _fuck_ , Richie!?”

            “Wait- You’re not mad, are you?”

            “Yes, I’m mad! Why wouldn’t I be? I let you come over to hang out, not to mess with my stuff!” Stan wanted to sound as angry as he could, but tears pricked his eyes and he could feel himself starting to get choked up, “I didn’t ask for anyone’s help- I was doing just _fine_ -”

            “Stan…” Richie’s voice came out quietly, but it was enough to make Stan stop talking. He looked down and rubbed at his eyes, the tears starting to burn his cheeks. As if his friends seeing how poorly he handled moving wasn’t enough, now he was starting to cry over it. He muttered a curse to himself, barely noticing Richie step closer to him. “Why do you keep acting like you have to do everything by yourself?”

“Wh… What?” Stan managed to choke out, sparing a glance at Richie. He knew he looked like a fucking wreck, and stupid worry on Richie’s face didn’t help.

            “You keep acting like you have to do everything by yourself, it’s ridiculous.”

            “No, it’s not…!” Stan cried indignantly.

            “Yeah, it is! Stan, you try and help us all the time, why can’t we help you?” As Richie said this, he grabbed the nearby laundry basket. “How many times have you insisted on cleaning my apartment, or helping with laundry? And what about that time Eds finally moved out and you helped him find somewhere to stay? I think we all kinda owe you a solid or two.”

            Stan’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re my friends, why _wouldn’t_ I help you?”

            “And you’re _our_ friend too, so why shouldn’t we help you?” Richie replied, pulling a shirt out of the basket and starting to fold it, just the Stan had taught him back in high school. Stan looked at him in silence, processing what he said, but Richie spoke up again before he could think of what to say. “You’re not being fair to yourself Stan. We saw you were having trouble, so we’re here to help. You think any of us would be helping if we didn’t want to?”

            “…I don’t want everyone to do everything for me,” Stan finally managed to say. Richie smiled slightly, grabbing another shirt from the basket and tossing it to Stan, who quickly caught it.

            “Then help me fold all these shirts, ‘kay?”

            “Right… Okay,” Stan nodded, feeling his anxiety ebb away just a bit.

 

* * *

 

            By the time lunch time rolled around, more had been done to get Stan’s apartment together than had been for the past month.

            Despite the dining table being free to use, everyone was sat around the living room instead, eating delivery pizza. They all sat in a circle on the floor, disregarding the available chairs; no one dared to take a slice of pizza onto the couch that had _just_ been put together.

            “Hey, Stan?” Ben spoke up, having just finished his slice. Stan glanced at him, having been silent for pretty much the whole meal. “Do you think you need help with anything else? Be honest.”

            Stan hesitated, then glanced around the living room. A majority of the boxes that had been there were broken down, after having been emptied. Most of the furniture was set up, all of Stan’s laundry and had been folded and hung, the hallway was full of photos, and the kitchen was pretty much entirely ready. The small pile of boxes that hadn’t been emptied no longer gave Stan much anxiety of depression to look at. It actually looked and felt manageable.

            Stan smiled a tiny bit and shook his head, “No, I think I’m good…”

            “W-We’ll take th-the cardboard out t-t-to the re-recy-recyclables, if you want,” Bill added, before taking a bit of pizza.

            “Yeah, thanks, guys…”

            “No problem, man,” Mike patted Stan’s shoulder and gave him a smile that made Stan feel warm inside.

            “… I really mean it, though… Thanks for helping me, guys,” Stan said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t know how long doing all this myself would’ve taken… So, thank you.”

            “Awww, is Stan showing an emotion?” Richie teased, grinning at his best friend.

            “Don’t mention it, we know you would’ve done the same for us,” Beverly replied, elbowing Richie in the ribs and flashing Stan a smile.

            “You probably would’ve nagged us a lot more,” Eddie pointed out, though his look of annoyance was edged with a teasing gleam in his eye.

            “What can I say? You guys are messes,” Stan scoffed, unable to hold back a smile.

            “I’m sorry, whose stuff did we just unpack and shit? Maybe we should just repack everything-,“ Richie started.

            “Oh hell no, I’m kicking you all out after this pizza’s gone!”


End file.
